Spoils of War
by Kelly1
Summary: Darkish Pietro stream of consciousness ficlet set after episode 13. Pietro finds himself in an MRD holding cell after the BOM's run in with the X-Men. He muses and angsts about his fate.


**AN:** "Put them out on the corner for the MRD, Pietro will love that," said Wolverine in Episode 13, earning a firm hold on Kelly1WRATH(TM) for his hypocrisy--especially when it involves her beloved. Luckily, Pietro/Angst is my Pietro OTP. This is what happens when I read "Son of M" and "The Quick and the Dead" all in one sitting. Thanks to A_Witch_Named_Wanda for being the best beta and not collapsing under the piles of my Pietroangst. The same goes for you, intrepid reader.

**Spoils of War**  
by_ Kelly1_

I am in a cell. And this prison is the MRD Central facility; and this prison is my father's expectations; and this prison is my mind.

Seconds drag their feet as they pass... I have no idea how long I have been in here, no window to the outside world to indicate the crawl. Days? Months? Years? I am a poor judge of time. It is far from my only flaw. The stubble on my face indicates days.

My face. I am the spoils of war, son of the enemy, but I look like no prize. Heavy bruising under my eyes, swollen nose, dried blood clinging to my upper lip where I hit that wall. Pryde. Pride, the dangers of hubris. I have heard it all before. Deadly sins: pride, greed, lust, wrath, envy. And I am oh so guilty...

My empty food tray mocks me from the corner. They are starving me here. Already I can feel my muscles weakening as my body begins to digest all that is consumable of itself, keeping my essential organs functioning for the time being. They don't understand that a metabolism like mine needs more than three meals a day. I won't tell them, it may be my only way out. They wouldn't dare kill me on purpose. I am their bargaining chip.

The joke's on them though... they're the only ones who think my life is worth something.

Friction-burn on my wrists. They can strap me to that chair all they please--it won't make me know any more about what he wanted. I've spent my whole life trying to figure that out myself. I have no information for them. Several more sessions and they will realize that. It will take them longer to concede what I already know. Father is not coming to save me.

I can see the hungry look in their eyes when they take me for inquisition. If I gave them information, they would be pleased, no doubt, but what they really want is for Magneto to barge in here, demanding my release. It would be a glorious excuse to spill his blood -- on their turf, on their terms. I have no such delusions. Wanda seems to think otherwise, but I do not doubt for one second that my darling father would choose his precious cause over something as insignificant as my life. And my life has been insignificant. He's made sure of that, made sure I was well aware of all my disappointments.

I do not need to be reminded.

Each failure is a stitch in my side, crippling me as I run. Less than thirty years old, and I can barely move under the weight of my shortcomings. I am arthritic with inadequacy.

I can already hear him adding grievances to my list: trusting Rogue, losing to the X-Men, being captured by the MRD. Never mind that ultimately we had achieved his goal... he had gotten what he wanted from the humans. I had made mistakes. I had almost cost him. I would never accomplish anything that made him proud.

I know I could have done something. I could have done what he needed in Genosha. I am far more suited than either of my sisters. Instead he saddled me with unstable misfits. I wonder if they're captured as well. Kept, killed? What are the rules now that a war has been declared? I hope none of them are dead because of me. I realize now that I've grown attached. Too late. Ironic. I am usually much too early.

I feel the heady rise of thoughts, the tightening in the back of my throat. The leg restraints they have put me in permit only awkward plodding but I need to run to stop this, to momentarily block it out. I can feel my breath quicken, the instinctual switch from nose to mouth. I am dizzy with the lack of oxygen. Anxiety seizes my brain and I am powerless--far more so than the MRD could ever hope to make me. This is the worst I have ever felt, this is the worst it has ever been. The rational part of me cries out in vain before logic speeds away from me.

I am vibrating so hard the cot rattles out a metallic symphony for the cacophony in my head. They are dead here. I will die here. I am such a disappointment. I am incompetent. I am worthless. I am stupid. Everything I touch turns to shit. I am not normal. Everyone else has goals and passions and dreams. I am empty and stunted and misanthropic. I hate the human race. I hate other mutants. How dare I be turned over by my own kind to the MRD? I am persecuted for something I have no control over. I didn't ask for this. I did not ask to be my father's son. Nothing is fair and I don't know how much longer I can take living in a world like this. I deserve to die here. I deserve to die. It would have been better if I had never lived at all. My eyes burn.

Eventually it ebbs. It always does, stealing from me the manic fervor and adrenaline. I am once again a shell. Exhausted. Guilty. Ridiculous. Father would be ashamed of me--his son: a shell with no mettle, no metal. Pathetic. I am not allowed self-pity. I am not allowed to seek help for such a human affliction.

I hear their crisp footsteps down the corridor. They will be here soon. It is time for another round of their game, to break the monotony, to sift through the dense silt of my mind. I am surprised to discover that I feel relieved.


End file.
